


"Devil's Backbone" Project

by welshalbino



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Lives, F/M, Other, Post-Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welshalbino/pseuds/welshalbino
Summary: Been teaching Jack how to use a hammer today,his journal read.Boy has all the dexterity of his father before him, but he still managed a better job than Uncle who was on the bottle before I could get him working.*****This is what actually started me writing RDR2 fic.I was thinking this was going to be a multi chapter fic, but as I started finding fanfic on tumblr and AO3 I noticed the second person format was popular, and wanted to try my hand at that, and then I got swallowed up in a hundred side projects all of which were in the second person, so this isn't "complete" but is essentially a collection of snippets I envisioned had Arthur made it out of chapter 6 in John's place.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston & Arthur Morgan, Abigail Roberts Marston & Jack Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston/Arthur Morgan, Jack Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. the one that got away

**Author's Note:**

> Storytime: whilst feelin’ like some cowboy music, I remembered "Barton Hollow" by The Civil Wars, and put them on shuffle. At this point in time, my red dead blog (MeowdyMista on tumblr) was crisp and new, and I hadn’t even seen any fan stuff (*cough* Charther), let alone considered anything except what I saw in game. I couldn’t find any fanfic ~~because I was looking at fanfiction.net because that’s just how long it has been since I was reading fanfic.~~ My heart belonged to Abigail and Arthur and what could have been and with The Civil Wars on shuffle, all I could see was an alternate ending where John got Arthur to run instead of him.
> 
> Anyway, the song for this part is "the one that got away" by The Civil Wars

“I think someone’s coming.”

Sadie leans out from around the station, expecting another false alarm. Abigail keeps her head buried in her son’s hair, breathing in his scent, trying to keep calm. This was why she stayed in camp as long as she had. It was bad enough waiting for his damn horse for the duration of whatever job he was on. The anxiety driven adrenaline was always pumping, and the sudden rush of relief often left her over tired and snappy - she prays under her breath, eyes scrunched closed. _Bring him back to me. Please bring him back to me and I will never shout again - I will be silent, I will be complacent, just please, please-_

“Is that…?” Riding haggard down the train tracks, he’s rasping, bloody and muddy, but oh so very there. Spotting her with her long blonde braid and the fitted trousers, he forces the crook of his mouth to chisel into his cheek, and tips his hat with the last of his energy.

“Mrs Adler.”

“Arthur!”

Her soft features shatter. Tilly is already running into the road, not looking back, her sobs the opposite end of the spectrum..

“Arthur! Arthur, you made it!”

“Let’s git him off his horse. Tilly, think you can hitch her?” The grunt is undeniable. Raspy, rough and deep. It’s not him. She squeezes her eyes tighter, stars erupting under her lids - _Please, please, please-_

“Mama! Uncle Arthur’s back!” She tries to gather the energy to keep him close, but her body is a bag of bones with no tendons. The boy tries to tug her up by her index finger, but the weight of the world is suffocating. Her boy - _their_ boy. All that wasted time. She still couldn’t tell him.

“Forget me,” grumbles Arthur, his spurs clanking over the planks. “Where’s Abigail?”

“She’s- she’s here. What happened?”

“Abigail-” The heat that tilts her chin is gentle despite the calloused skin. Her body responds, sweeping her face to the left and then back into the safespace of his hand. “Abigail, look at me.”

A sob heaves out of her chest, her lashes dropping their heavy load as he comes into focus, dishevelled, beaten, but unmistakably there. He takes a breath to speak, but it catches and his own mouth droops lower than she has ever seen. His other hand holds her neck, supporting it. “He-” The tears fall with his hat. “Abigail.”

She throws herself up against him, sobbing uncontrollably, crying harder when she catches Jack’s small voice asking Tilly if Mama is hurt, is he hurting her, she looks like she’s hurting.

“He came back.”

“John?” She scrambles, trying to push him back so she can see the verity in his eyes, but his grip is surprisingly firm for his shrinking frame.

“Abigail…”

“Where is he? Where-” And already her energy is used. She slumps back against the wall, her weight taking him with her.

“Woah there cowboy,” growls Sadie, pulling him back, but Abigail is past caring. There was no weight left to crush her. She feels him resist at first, before relaxing, allowing the woman to pull him back until he is lying on the planks barely able to catch his breath between coughing fits. She hears the slug of water Tilly retrieves from his satchel, and even hears the air as he shakes his hand at her, still spluttering breathlessly.

He groans loudly as the fit passes and he accepts the drink.

“Did you say something about John?” Sadie is squatted next to him, holding his shoulder to keep him balanced. Tilly is knelt the other side, wiping the gleam from his brow. “What happened when you got back? Micah? Dutch? The money?” 

“Jack?” he gasps suddenly.

“I’m here, Uncle Arthur!” The man sighs with relief, or exhaustion. Jack brushes Abigail’s hair from her face. “Mama, are you sick?”

Sadie curses. “I think she’s passed out.”

“Nah, she’s there.” He coughs and staggers to his feet despite Tilly’s objections. “She’s in shock. C’mon, we all need-” He hacks away again, shaking his head as his adopted sister rubs his back. “We need a roof. Somewhere to stay. Somewhere-”

“Somewhere to get you two rested up,” finishes Sadie. He nods. “Tilly, I think there’s a room above the gunsmith.”

“I’ll be right back,” she promises, lifting her yellow skirts, her beaten boots kicking the dirt up behind her.

“ _Unser Retter!_ ”

“No, no, he’s fine, leave him be.”

“ _Ist sie verletzt?_ ”

“She’s with me too. I just sent my friend to get us a room.” Sadie tries to disrupt the amalgamation of foreign chatter, but it’s sweeping over Abigail’s head, swirling into nothingness.

“This man- he helped my family. His friend; she is sick also?”

She sighs in exasperation. “Listen, we’ve just been through a lot, we don’t need saving. Like I said, my friend-”

A male voice gushes more foreign sounds.

“My father. He wants to help. He- he-” The small voice sighs. “ _Er wird sie heben. Heben?_ ”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I think he’s offering to carry her,” growls Arthur. “We’re fine, friend. Thank you. I can get her.”

“Arthur, you ain’t even carryin’ yourself right now!”

“You and Tilly need to get yourselves out of here.” He looks up to Sadie, blue eyes begging, each breath rasping from his open mouth. “There’s too many of us. I’ll take care of ‘em but I need you-”

“What you need, Arthur Morgan, is to quit trying to be the hero,” she snaps, grunting as she lifts Abigail to her feet. “You helped me out at Hanging Dog Ranch, and I did my best to get John’s family out. You can’t do this alone. Let me help.”

“Fine,” he wheezes, stroking Abigail’s arm as Sadie helps her in the direction Tilly left it.

“Where’s Pa?”

“Listen, Jack. I need you to be brave. Can you do that for me?” The boy nods, eyes wide with fear. “Follow Mrs Adler and your ma. Miss Tilly is getting you a bed for the night.”

“You not comin’?” calls Sadie, glaring back.

“I’ve been runnin’ with Dutch over twenty years. They know who I am. It’s the best chance I can give yer.”

“Sir, you stay with my family.”

He grins. “See, hospitality abound!” He looks back to the girl and her father. “I can’t accept that. I’m a dangerous man, but thank you.”

"We found you on the road,” the girl replies. “We brought you home. My father, he has medicine.”

“I’m past medicine, miss.”

“My uncle is doctor in Germany. You come with us. We have medicine.”

******

They pass a week in Annesburg, Sadie scouting ahead with advice of various homesteads.

“If we could get to Strawberry,” murmurs Arthur as the blonde mother forces a bowl of grey blue paste into his hands. “There’s a couple of cabins up there. A taxidermist who’s never home and a newly married feller that rode off the cliff.”

“How’d you know about those kinda things, Arthur?” she asks incredulously as he spoons the goo into his mouth. “And what the hell is that?”

“I quit askin’.”

“I know I knocked Pearson the whole time we were in camp, but right now he looks like the chef of the century.”

His chuckle tickles his throat into a cough. “They make proper food too. I think it’s medicine of some kind. Or poison. Either way, no one else here seems to get it. Want some?”

“I’ll pass.” Sadie surveys him. His eyes are a little less dark, his breathing nowhere near as raspy and somehow his face is a little fuller. “You know, Morgan, I thought you were dead when you rode off.”

“So did I.” He coughs into the handkerchief again before clearing his throat. “Listen, go North outta here an’ take the road North East, up the hillside. Eventually you’ll see a little cabin with blue shutters - last time I went by, the place was empty and had been for a while. Might be a better place for y’all to stay ‘til we can get somethin’ more permanent.”

“What about you?”

“I got contacts. Met a widow an’ a coupl’a hermits.” He shudders as he forces the last of the paste down his throat. “One’s a self proclaimed King. I gotta check the small print, but I’m pretty sure if I kill him, that makes me the new monarch.”

“Oo, look at you! Got your sights set high, huh?” Sadie lands a soft punch to his shoulder as he coughs out a laugh. “Living up to the legend!”

*****

“ _SNAP!_ ”

“Yeh’re gettin’ good at this, Jack.”

“I’m winning! I’m winning!”

“You sure are, son. C’mon, I’m gonna go a bit quicker now, yeh ready?”

“Damn straight!”

“Hey now, what would your mama do if she heard you cursin’ like tha’?” There’s a small nervous giggle. “Naw, this time it’s just between us boys. Don’t be sayin’ tha’ in front of your mama, ok, Jack?”

“Sorry, Uncle Arthur.”

“S’alright, just don’t go makin’ a habit of it, yer hear? Else she won’t let me play you again.”

The silence is broken by the flick of cards. The world is swirling, knocking her sick. Everything aches and her head is heavy - it takes a few seconds for her brain to catch up. The damp is leaking into her hair before she realises that she’s crying.

“Mama?”

“It’s ok, Jack. Keep practicing.” A chair drags dully across the rug and the rugged warm hands encase the folded frozen pair on her stomach. “Abigail?”

The whisper is warm and dances over her skin, waking it up. Blinking, she tries to open her eyes, but there is too much moisture. His thumb strokes her lashes clean, and she tries again. Arthur is watching her with concern, his blond hair a halo in the light from the window.

“Hey there, darlin’. You thirsty?” She shakes her head, her neck stiff, but as she swallows to speak her throat is dry. “Here, we got you a cup, just take a sip for me.”

She obeys, accepting his help as he tips the cup to her lips. Through the gap her swollen eyes can make, she sees Jack turning cards and counting them to himself. “Did you teach him to do that?” she croaks.

Following her gaze, he chuckles. “Blackjack was no fun without a dealer.” She scowls as he leans back to cough. “I’m just messin’. Kinda.”

She sighs, a smile trying to fight it’s way onto her face, but the anchors pull down at her cheeks. “You said- Something about John?”

He hesitates, glancing at the boy as he scrunches up his handkerchief. She touches his hand, the one that’s still on the bed.

“Please?”

He sighs, fingers scratching into his beard. “I will.” He meets her gaze, his eyes sad and sick. “But not with the boy here. Later. I promise.”


	2. quiet light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING:** the entirety of this has strong themes. Suggested self harm, grief, **miscarriage** , pregnancy. Please do NOT read further unless you are accepting of these warnings. This piece was written with John’s comment to Bonnie in mind - “I have a son at home and a daughter in heaven”.
> 
> Song is "Quiet Light" by The National (from an album that defined the first UK lockdown that started a year ago!) Alternatively, epiphany by Taylor Swift (from an album that has carried me through the third UK lockdown that started before the new year) or Time Is Dancing by Ben Howard.

It hasn’t been easy - far from it - but there were already so many reasons for him to stay.

Within a couple of months of escaping Lemoyne - alive despite best efforts - Arthur had woken to Abigail sobbing. It wasn’t unusual, and usually he would pretend to not hear it, but this was different. This was fear and devastation wrapped up in moving materials and frantic muttering.

He got to his feet from his sleeping bag on the floor and carefully sat on the bed, avoiding Jack who was still sound asleep. He reached out to take her hand, comfort her in some way, but it came back warm and wet.

“What the hell?” Turning on the light was a mistake.

Arthur had seen a lot of horrifying things, especially of late, but this was something else. Abigail was sobbing in a pool of blood, sopping blouses failing to stem it. Her body heaved with each body wrecking sob, blood smearing over her face as she pushes her hair back.

“What’s goin’ on?” He moves around the bed to try to help, his stomach already lost through the floorboards. “You do this?” Her sobbing is too hard for her to speak, she just shakes her head. “Is there someone else in here?”

She lies back, burying her face into her elbow as Arthur begins to search her legs for injury. Wordlessly she moves his hand onto her stomach. He breathes out as the muscles move under the light touch of his fingers and he has to swallow the lump in his throat as he moves her arm gently away from her face..

“Were you-?”

She cries harder, and he recognises the grief washing out of her lungs. John.

He swears under his breath, wiping the blood and slime onto his jeans, looking over to the boy still sleeping and back to the weeping woman.

“What can I do? What should I do? Can I help?” For once the fear is palpable on his face. He takes a gulp of air and heads straight to the door of the small room they had hired for the night. He had paid for it in the hopes it would make her feel better, help her recover, but he had put her fragile, perpetually exhausted state to grief.

“I need a doctor!” he cries, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Anybody? I need a doctor!”

He hammers on every door, growing more wild without respite. Abigail is wiped with another contraction, when she catches the small gasp from beside her.

The little boy’s screams bring Arthur thundering back in, scooping him up into his arms and holding him close as the boy struggles, sobbing. “Hey! Hey, Jack, it’s ok! It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok…” He presses the boy’s small head into his neck and looks at Abigail panting on the mattress before rushing back to the doorway, looking up and down the hall. “I need help in here!” he roars as Abigail screams. “We need help!”

“What the devil-?”

“Sir! A doctor! A doctor or a woman - whichever, I just need help now!”

There’s a splutter. “What ever is the matter?”

“My- my wife is miscarryin’. She’s losing a lotta blood and I ain’t ever helped with this sorta thing-”

There’s more shouting, but Arthur is hurrying back to her side, bouncing the distraught boy on his hip as he pushes her hair from her face.

“We’re gonna be ok, Abigail.” His eyes shine green in the yellow light of the lantern, the fear still etching his forehead. “We’re gonna be ok. You, Jack an’ me. The feller’s gone for the madam next door. She’ll know what to do. You’re gonna be alright.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be, Abigail.”

“I shoulda said- but with John- with everything going on-”

“Abigail Roberts,” he crouches down, bending closer to cup her face in his hand. “Right now we needa think about you. Nothin’ else.”

“Where is she?”

Arthur sags in relief as a stout angry lady enters the room, but is forced to all but dive out of the way as she barrels in to take her pulse. She nods her head once and pulls out a bottle of moonshine from her pinny, setting it on the bedside table.

“Where does it hurt, my darlin’?”

Arthur looks on hopeless, still hushing Jack, and the woman shoots him a look. “Get out to the bar. Take the boy with you. We could be a while yet.”

“You sure?” He looks to Abigail but she’s screaming again. “If anything happens-”

“We will send for you.”

Another few whores slip into the room, scantily clad but eyes full of concern and determination.

“Abigail-”

A hand touches his arm and a woman with big brown eyes gives him a reassuring smile. “Look after the boy.”

He gulps and nods, making sure the boy doesn’t see his mother as he carries him out of the room.

The sun has risen before the door opens again. After a lot of reassurance that his Momma was gonna be just fine, and that it was ok, everyone was just as scared as he was, he had fallen asleep on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur hadn’t been so lucky. When the gentleman returned with a bottle of whisky and set it in front of him, he took it without as much of a nod. He drank until he felt warm again, until he could feel the blood pumping under his skin, until his shoulder stopped aching from the dead weight of the snoring boy.

He misses Miss Grimshaw’s level head. She would have swooped in days ago, asking all the right questions and helping her to prepare. He misses Hosea’s voice of reason and Sean’s bratty optimism. He can’t help but wonder what John would be doing. Had he known? Had he an inkling of what was happening? Would he have ran again, or would he have grown, taking this second chance with both hands?

Arthur closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. He even missed Dutch despite their differences of late. Old Dutch would have commandeered the operation, boasting the goods, downplaying the bads. And now it was just some old cowboy trying to hold the last two pieces of the puzzle together.

He can’t lose anyone else. He can’t, if only for the boy. How do you tell a boy the truth of the situation? That everybody is mortal, and right now everyone he’s ever truly known has left or is leaving?

_There’ll be time for sorrow later._

They stay a further few days until Arthur is willing to believe Abigail is recovered enough to ride a horse. He helps her bury the small body whilst Jack sleeps inside, and holds her as she weeps. It finally makes sense how she had held herself together after they lost John. He thought she had been denying the truth, expecting him to ride up behind them one day and whisk them away, but the grief was for more than the tiny child wrapped in one of its mother’s blood soaked blouses.

Arthur makes sure to leave the owner a very generous tip, and slip the same to the brothel next door before they leave. The sight of Abigail wincing on the back of her horse is enough to drive him back into town for a small wagon. Money is getting thinner every day, but he justifies it easily. Everything will be worth it as long as Abigail and her son get out of the outlaw life.

They stay at different cabins Arthur had found to be empty whilst they were still with the gang, but never stay long. The longest they stay is three weeks at a crushed cabin near Moonstone Pond. It’s small, damp, and the tang of bat piss permeates everything they own, but Arthur manages to spread his tent into a canopy to keep them covered when it rains.


	3. from this valley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: the timing and concept of Arthur’s recovery is all messed because I’ve combined two versions of the same idea. I feel like this reads best how I wrote it, set circa two years after ch6.
> 
> Song is "From This Valley" by The Civil Wars

Abigail had spotted the advert in the paper and asked Jack to read it in full. Confined to bed rest after his operation, Arthur had gotten into the habit of helping her read it aloud. Abigail had always wanted to read, but she was slow to pick it up. When she was too tired or frustrated to try, he would read along with her, making her follow the words with her finger. This helped some.

Then, after they were sure everything had died down a bit, they moved out. Arthur, having shaved his head and grown his beard out, went in and signed a mortgage under Jack’s name. Uncle had found Abigail and Jack outside and, not being in a position where they could build the house themselves, he came with them.

 _Been teaching Jack how to use a hammer today,_ his journal read. _Boy has all the dexterity of his father before him, but he still managed a better job than Uncle who was on the bottle before I could get him working._

_It’s nice to hear Abigail laugh again. It’s been a long eighteen months since we lost John. She’s been a wreck, but I can’t blame her. Truth be told, Jack has been the pillar that has kept us both centered. Without the Pinkertons hunting us every hour of the day, a lot of sorrow has caught up, and it’s been real hard to keep off the bottle. It’s given me a new perspective to what Karen and the Reverend were fighting against._

“Jack?”

“Over here, Uncle Arthur!”

He can’t stop the smile stretching over his face as he walks over. “You reading again?”

“Yep!” The seven year old looks up at him from where he’s sat cross legged against the trunk of the tree. matching his grin.

“What’re we gonna do with you? How many books you read now?”

He pulls a small book from his pocket. Arthur had bought him one after he had shown interest in the sketches in his journal. Whilst it wasn’t quite what he had had in mind, the boy had created a ledger of titles and authors. It filled him with pride to see the boy’s face light up at the mere mention of it. He had tried to follow the titles, reading them with Abigail some evenings so they could talk about them with him, but he blew through them too fast. Jack knew now that if he particularly liked a passage, he should read it at dinner when everyone was together.

He waves his hand as the boy counts through the pages. “Y’know what? Forget it. I can see how much you got writ there, and I ain’t gettin’ any younger. I wanted to know if you wanted to come for a ride into town?”

“What for?” asks the young boy, marking his page and getting to his feet.

“Just some errands to run. Was thinkin’ we could pick up some pieces while we’re down there, surprise your ma.”

He nods. It was coming up to two years since that mess back at Beaver Hollow. Things have been quiet enough for Arthur to consider taking the boy and his mother back east. He wants to take flowers to the graves, and he knows that if they are able to do so inconspicuously, it would mean a lot to her.

He had tried to go back up a few days later, but was too sick to make it far. It was to try to recover John’s body and learn his fate, or get his family out of there. He knew that if anything happened and he didn’t make it back down, Abigail didn’t have the drive to flee herself.


	4. The Letter (talking in your sleep)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: This was yet another attempt to start the ball rolling on the idea in my head, which is why the treatment specified in this is different to was was in the first part of the project. (that and I'm doing a test because fics are saying I haven't updated them when I thought I had posted a draft since then)

_Dearest Mary,_

_I understand if you burn this without reading it. If you are finally free of me, be free. I know writing this is a selfish indulgence, but I have been fighting myself for years, and in the end, I have to know. This is the last step in me becoming a free man._

_You read about “that day” in the paper, and correctly deduced the mess I got myself in. It gets worse; Hosea got shot. So did a young man that had been running with us. A good friend of mine, one I was real fond of called Lenny. Riding with him was never a chore, even when it was supposed to be._

_It feels foolish to write it, but I’m sure it sounds more absurd reading it. It wasn’t because I was a wanted man that I didn’t meet you “that day” in Saint Denis, nor was it a desire to protect you from my lifestyle. I was washed up on some goddamn island called “Guarma” after fleeing Lemoyne with Dutch and some other men on a boat that sank during a storm._

_I kicked myself every day that I was there. When we managed to escape the sugar plantation and get back to America, things were too hot to think of anything outside of getting the women and Jack out of camp, and from there everything kept spiralling._

_I know all of this sounds like excuses. Maybe they are, but mostly it felt like the universe was reminding me I don’t deserve anything good. I lost you because I couldn’t live any other way, and for a long time, I believed any good or joy that found me were only instruments used to hurt me more in the long run. I guess I still believe that, but I got to wondering if ihe good could be worth it._

_We lost more folk before we got out. It was like Hosea had kept Dutch under control. Without him (and with a snake in his ear instead) he finally snapped. Started killing folk for the sake of it and enacting revenge. I won’t lie, I was real frightened then. I was frightened I was gonna die and everyone that was left would get dragged into his suicide mission whether they liked it or not._

_When I found out I was sick, I knew there was nothing to lose. You had already said goodbye, Hosea was gone, and Dutch wasn’t Dutch anymore. I figured even if I did come out of it alive, there was no life left for me to live. Then a whole bunch more folk got killed, including Miss Grimshaw and John. and suddenly I was on the other side, a free man with a life sentence._

_Everything I have done since then has been to make amends or to help people establish independence, I guess. I took Abigail and Jack out of state, helped them build a ranch on an old plot of land up near Tall Trees. Mrs Adler tracked down the money and after splitting it between us, there was plenty to pay off the mortgage. John’s boy now has a house with his mother, with no debt and a dependable source of income that can keep them steady until he’s grown enough to get an education and a job. In all honesty, it’s brought me a sense of peace I have never known outside of your company._

_I’m not as foolish as to believe my hands are washed of the past, but for now, all seems well. I can cross state lines without bounty hunters on my back. The freedom is making me a little claustrophobic if I’m honest, but it’s real reassuring to know that if I were to disappear tomorrow, everything would be ok._

_I’m never going to be a good man - I’m human, after all, and heavier with sin than most - but if the “giant” in your last letter was Dutch, or the life of an outlaw, I want you to know the man that has loved you all his damn life won the fight._

_I am staying with Abigail, Jack and Uncle up at Beecher’s Hope in West Elizabeth, doing what I can to help them while I decide where to go next. I’ve done enough running for many a lifetime, so right now I’m trying to find a new normal. I was so close to death that I put myself forward as a guinea pig to a scotsman called Dr MacEwan. Turns out his theory worked as well in practice! He’s warned the tuberculosis might come back, but for now I’m almost as good as new. I hate bed rest too much to risk the complications, plus I’m getting too old._

_This is my goodbye, if you want it to be. In telling you that I am free, for the first time in my life, perhaps I can be._

_Yours, always,_

_AM_


	5. dust to dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning; contains smut.
> 
> Because we know Arthur would pull out the angreh cowboah act to intimidate Jack Marston into behaving. Chapter song is "Dust to Dust" by the Civil Wars (previously "I am" by Nathaniel Rateliff because I forgot it was dust to dust lol)

“Shove it, Ma.”

“Jack!”

“Boah.” Arthur juts his chin to the door, setting his napkin on the table. “Walk with me.”

“No!”

“It wasn’t an invitation, Jack.” His growl is ominous. 

The boy gasps as he is pulled to his feet. “Let go, Arthur!”

“Tha’s Uncle Arthur to you. Outside.”

“Arthur-!”

“We’ll be right back, Abigail.” His eyes are sparkling dangerously, his tone forced polite. “Just gonna take a minute to cool off.”

“That boy’s gonna get what’s comin’ to him!” giggles Uncle.

“Shoot!” Abigail jumps to her feet, following them to the door. “Arthur!”

“We’ll only be a minute.” He looks back at her, eyes honest. She swallows, unable to speak as the front door closes and the footsteps move over the porch.

She rushes to the window in the boy’s room, keeping out of sight.

“What’s come over you?” The familiar growl is still as husky as ever.

“Leave me alone!”

“Alrigh’ lemme ask you again. What’s come over you, boah?”

“You’re not my father, Arthur! Why are you even here?”

“Is that it? Is that’s what’s botherin’ yer?”

“Nothin’ has to be botherin’ me! You just need to get lost!”

A dark chuckle reverberates through the glass. “Jack Marston. I am going to say this once, and I’m going to say it clearly so even your dumb pa could understand it - Never. Speak. To your mother. Like that. Again.”

“Or what?”

Abigail presses her hands over her eyes. She could almost hear the creak of skin pulling over Arthur’s knuckles. _Don’t hit my son, Morgan! Do not hit my son!_

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, calmer, and all the more frightening. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

The silence is shaky and drawn out. “No, sir,” he eventually gasps.

Arthur claps his shoulder firmly, demonstrating a small portion of his true strength. “I’m glad,” he smiles, eyes tight. “Now how about we go inside and try to be civil.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Uncle stifles a chuckle as she throws herself back in her seat, flattening her hair. The men walk back inside.

“Jack has something he would like to say to you, Abigail.”

He’s shaking, but Arthur’s stature is calm and relaxed.

“I’m sorry, Ma. It won’t happen again.”

“Good lad,” murmurs Arthur, patting him on the back, letting him know he’s free.

“Apology accepted.” Abigail forces a smile as the boy rejoins the table. She looks at the man, but he’s tearing himself a chunk of bread and eating like he’s been starved.

“So, Arthur,” says Uncle casually. “There’s rumours of some cows being moved from McFarlene’s to Strawberry for auction. Fancy some hustlin’?”

He tips the bowl into his mouth, wiping his face as he sets it back down. “Why? Do you?”

“I would love to, but this darn lumbago…”

“Ah, yes, the lumbago.” Arthur meets Abigail’s gaze and winks, making her laugh. “Think it’s best we keep from robbing the neighbours anyway.”

“I’m sure you could do it just fine!”

He stretches loudly, his lungs rasping as they have done for years. “Nah, I reckon we should sit this one out.”

“The McFarlene’s take real good care of their livestock-”

“Then maybe we should be lookin’ at buyin’.” He moves his plate out of Abigail’s reach with a shake of his head. “Y’all done there? Jack?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He piles the crockery on top of his own and moves towards the kitchen.

“Arthur! I can do that! You’ve been workin’ all day-!”

“So’ve you, Miss Roberts.”

She sighs, defeated, looking at her son. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, too embarrassed to scowl or look up. “I’m gonna call it a night.”

“OK.” Abigail watches him leave, biting her lip to keep her sigh inside.

Uncle yawns loudly. “Think the boy’s got a good plan for the evening. G’night, Miss Roberts. Mr Morgan.”

She wrestles to keep her eyes from rolling, settling on collecting the napkins for wash and the last of the cups he had missed.

In the kitchen, Arthur is already washing up, singing to himself quietly. The cups clack together as Abigail sets them on the counter, drawing his attention.

“Hey, you ok?”

“Yeah. I just… I don’t know what’s got into him of late. He’s so moody.”

He chuckles, drying his hands on the towel before opening his arms out. “C’mere.” She accepts the invitation, feeling herself relax as he pulls her into a firm hug. “He’s jus’ going through them changes. He’ll come out a man soon enough.”

“I don’t want a man, I want my little boy back.”

He chuckles, squeezing her tighter, cheek pressed against her head. “I’m sure you do. He’s growin’ up real fast.”

“Too fast,” she moans, laughing despite herself. She takes a step back to look at him. “Make it stop!”

He chuckles, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. “You know I can’t do that. All’s left to do is try to raise him up better than we was.”

“Hosea and Dutch did an alright job on you,” she smiles.

He chuckles again, dropping her hand to lean back on the counter. “Sure, if you want another outlaw.” Their gazes meet and Arthur holds it until she looks away, embarrassed. “You need to talk?”

She looks up unwillingly. His arms are spread again, his rugged face open with understanding and years of friendship. “Somethin’ like that;” She forces a laugh, folding her arms, keeping herself to the other side of the room.

Arthur walks over to wrap his arm around her shoulders, his blue eyes cutting with concern. He waits, not wanting to pressure her into confessing something she isn’t ready to, but the heat of his body is driving her crazy.

When she looks up, there is a flicker of surprise before their lips are smashed together. He begins to pull her in, kissing her deeply as she hurries to unfasten the buttons.

“Abigail,” he manages to gasp, pulling her hands from his shirt by her wrists. “Jack? Uncle?”

“They’ve gone to bed.” She tries to step forward, but he resists, still frowning. “Please, Arthur?”

He sighs, trying to find the words. “You sure? About this?” His forehead furrows deeper. “I don’t want- I don’t want to mess this up.” She stops struggling and begins to pull away. “Don’t get me wrong, Abigail, I want you. I want you like that, but-”

“Then stop talkin’!” She stares him out, waiting. Eventually his grip loosens, and she pulls herself closer, pushing herself onto her toes so she can kiss him.

He responds slowly at first, but then the hunger takes a hold of him too. As they pull apart to catch their breath, he hoists her up onto the cupboards, pulling her body against his, his hands pulling at her hips and legs. She throws her head back, gasping as he sucks on her shoulder, rubbing himself between her skirts. She forces her hands between their bodies and starts pulling at the rest of his buttons of his shirt, making him moan as her fingers pull through his chest hair.

He picks her up and turns on the spot, moving plates of meat and bundles of vegetables off the table to lie her on it. He pulls it out a little so he can stand between her knees, still kissing every bit of skin his mouth can reach. She pulls at her undergarments with one hand and trying to undo his buckle with the other, but a hand catches her wrist again, pinning it over her head.

A groan slips from her throat as his face burrows it’s way down into her chest, his free hand playing on the inside of her thighs. She can feel herself quivering and tries to move her hips to meet his palm, but he moves it away teasingly.

When his fingers begin to play at her entrance, he lifts his head to watch her reaction. The corner of his mouth tucks up into his cheek, as he feels himself growing harder. Unable to torture her further, he pushes in one finger, then two, and then pushes up to his knuckles. He kisses the hills of her breasts as her back arches. He lets her wrists slip free from his grip and doesn’t fight her when she pulls at his trousers.

“You sure?” he growls, moving his tip over the slippy labia, his thumb playing with her clit.

“Yes!”

He pushes his way inside with one fluid movement. His hands grip her hips and pull her closer to the edge of the table, slowly moving his hips to thrust into her. He smiles, leaning in to kiss her, when he freezes, eyes wide.

“What?” Abigail turns her head and immediately swears under her breath. Arthur pulls out, turning around to stuff himself back into his trousers. Uncle passes the doorway, muttering to himself about a bottle of whiskey he must have left in the stable earlier.

When the latch clicks shut, they look at each other.

“My bedroom?” Abigail suggests. “Before he comes back?”

Arthur nods, unable to speak as they grab any loose garments and flit over the hallway.

“I shoulda put a lock on this door.” Arthur tugs the wardrobe so it overlaps the doorframe. “There. No peeking Uncles.” He turns around and pulls Abigail against him. “Where were we?”

She giggles, her stomach fluttering as he lifts her up to kiss her. Her legs wrap around his waist, her fingers pulling through his hair and over his neck and shoulders as he crawls onto the bed and lowers her down gently. He laughs, kicking off his boots as Abigail wriggles out of her skirts, revealing herself fully.

He whistles under his breath. “You ain’t changed a bit.”

“Shut up!”

“I mean it - you look…” He shakes his head, pulling his body free from his union suit. She sits up and pulls him down by the back of his neck, kissing him hard. He moans into her mouth, moving forward to hover over her, his member bumping clumsily against her pelvis. She reaches down and gives him the slightest of nudges, and immediately he’s back inside gasping against her shoulder as he begins to thrust.

Abigail chews her lip to stop the whimpers leaking out. Arthur is grasping at her flesh, guiding her hips, lifting her knees higher up his waist as he begins to plunge deeper. Her head tilts back, a great moan of satisfaction about to reverberate out of her, but a hand clasps over her mouth.

The latch catches again, followed by Uncle’s mumblings, as they still themselves, holding their breath. They listen to him walking back to the living room where he had set out his bedroll for the night.

Blue fixes on blue green as they resume carefully grinding their bodies together, trying to resist the urgency calling them both.

Arthur kisses her neck, and her teeth bite into his thumb in an effort to remain silent. The grinds begin to hasten as she feels herself growing closer to climax.

“C’mon girl,” he murmurs, his nose gliding over her collarbones. “C’mon, let me feel you.”

Her fingers rake over his shoulder blades, the air catching in her throat. Arthur’s low groan is guttural. “Yes, c’mon. Keep squeezin’ - ohh, there you go.”

Abigail pulls a pillow over her face to stifle the scream as Arthur continues to pound into her. Her hands spread and pull at the bed sheets as she pulses with pleasure, and it’s not long before she can feel him stiffening into an almost vibrating quiver.

He pulls out, grunting as his hand finishes the job, raining thick heat over her stomach. His shoulders sag, a wave of relief rushing out any last drop of urgency as the sheen of sweat beads down his neck. Abigail lies still, her bosom still rising and falling as she fights to catch her breath.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

He chuckles, patting her leg sleepily as he moves across the room to bring her a damp cloth. “Any time,” he rasps as he wipes himself from her skin. “Feel better?”

“Much. You?”

“Mmhm.” Dropping the cloth on the nightstand, he lies down beside her and pulls her into his chest. A hand drifts down her side as he kisses her forehead gently. “You’ve still got it, Miss Roberts. Whatever it is, you still got it.”

***

Abigail wakes up to an empty bed. The bed sheets brush over her naked body, confirming last night was not a dream. She forces herself to swallow any hurt, calmly reminding herself that she doesn’t need her son finding her in bed with a man that is not his father, when the door creaks open.

“Mornin’.” Arthur sets a tray on the bedside table, flicking his damp hair out of his eyes as he helps her sit up. “Sleep alright?”

“Sure.” She can’t help but smile at the cup, and he follows her gaze.

“I know how much you like your mornin’ coffee,” he explains. “Plus I felt breakfast wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Thank you!”

“Nah, don’t mention it.” He pats her leg and walks back out of the room. “The bath is waitin’ for you when you want it. I’m gonna go give Jack his breakfast to keep him busy if you wanna sneak over?”


	6. we might be dead by tomorrow

“My God, is that _Sadie Adler?_ ”

Turning around, the woman’s mouth drops open. “Arthur motherfuckin’ Morgan!” she squeals, throwing her arms up and hugging him tight. “Oh my god! I thought you were _dead!_ Am I dreaming? Is it really you?“

"It’s me, alright.” He groans as he squeezes her close, both of them laughing as he finally releases her and holds her at arm’s length. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

“Bounty huntin’ mostly.” She slaps his arm looking him up and down, her eyes still sparkling with disbelief. “What about you? What have you been doin’ all these years that you couldn’t drop by to say hi to your good friend Sadie?”

“Avoidin’ Pinkertons mostly.” He nods at the bartender who promptly pours two double shots of whisky. They toast and only Arthur pulls a face. “Been travellin’ around with Jack and Abigail, tryna get them settled someplace.”

“You’re still with them?” She nods appreciatively. “Does that mean you and Abigail…?” He gives her a blank stare. “Are you two… together?”

“Oh! Nah, o’course not. She’s always been in love with Marston.”

“Well, John’s been dead goin’ on eight years now.”

“So’s Jake. Have you met someone?”

Sliding another dollar to the bartender, she blows a long raspberry. “Have I hell. I think that was it for me. I’m not exactly meeting the best of suitors in my line of work.”

Arthur shrugs, accepting the beer she pushes into his hand. “Well, there you have it.”

“Oh no, you ain’t getting off that easy! You can’t be tellin’ me you ain’t ever slept together?”

“The women we travelled with were working girls, Sadie, with the exception of you. I mean, even Molly was startin’ that way ‘til Dutch picked her up.”

“I meant since I last saw y’all.” She laughs at the colour creeping up Arthur’s neck. “I knew it!”

“It ain’t like that, Sadie.”

“Well what’s it like then?” she teases with a big smile.

“It’s- y’know what it’s like. Some nights are more lonely than others.” His gaze is fixed on his fingers as they pick at the label.

“So you’ve only done it once or twice?” The heat starts burning in the cartilage of his ears. “Or once or twice this week?”

“We ain’t done it this week!” Arthur sits up a little taller, his cheeks still burning.

“No sexual activity at all?” He glances at her, his faltering voice making her laugh. “Arthur Morgan, how I’ve missed you!”

“Shurrup!” he growls, shoving her gently and draining the rest of his beer in one. “Don’t you have some work to be gettin’ on with?”

“Why? You sick of me already?” Her hand squeezes his shoulder until he meets her gaze. “Listen. I’m happy for you. You deserve to have a loving family.”

“You got the wrong end of the stick. I’m just helping ‘em get settled. We bought some land and built a ranch on it. When it’s paid for itself and they got a foot on this farming shit, I’ll leave ‘em to it.”

“How old is the ranch now?”

“About a year or more.”

“And you’re set on movin’?”

He shrugs. “I ain’t gonna outstay my welcome. Just wanna make sure they’ll be alright.”

Shaking her head, she heaves a deep breath. “What’s Abigail say about that?”

“We ain’t really talked about it...”

“So you’re sleepin’ together, runnin’ a ranch and helpin’ with her boy… but you’re still intending to leave?”

“Shit, Sadie, it won’t be for a while yet. Another year or more… it depends. I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

Quiet blankets the conversation. They each accept another beer, drinking wordlessly.

“Pearson runs the shop out in Rhodes now,” she states calmly.

“Really? Good for him!”

“Got himself a wife too - Esther.” Her sideways glance is enough to tickle him. “She’s got him as whipped as his Aunt Cathy.”

“Well, it weren’t for lack of suitors!” He laughs remembering their first trip into Rhodes. “Damn, Mrs Adler. Where does the time go?”

“Speak for yourself, old man! Them grey hairs had to come from somewhere.”

He scratches the stubble on his jaw self consciously. “Shurrup. I’m retired.”

“Didn’t know reprobates could retire.”

He chuckles again, shaking his head as he stands up. “Me neither, but it’s nice to try.”

“Well if you ever want any work, you know where I am. Most towns have bounty posters up and around. If you need money for the ranch, or if you’re serious about leaving ‘em to it…”

“Huh, maybe. I used to pick some up back in the day. You got an address, or an alias if I wanna write?”

“Nothin’ particular. Send it to wherever you hear from me last. No alias - this is legal work I’m doin’ now, so Mrs Adler is just fine. Yourself?”

“Beecher’s Hope, West Elizabeth.”

“Near Blackwater?”

“That’s the one.”

“I heard there’s some rough folk thataway.”

“The Skinner Brothers? Yeah, they can be pretty nasty.”

She hesitates. “I guess I can see why you want to stick around a bit longer… To make sure they’re safe.”

He agrees without much commitment - that reason is as good as any. “You should drop by if you’re in the area. I’m sure Abigail and Jack would love to see you and how well you’re doing for yourself.”

“I’ll definitely think about it.” She offers her hand, but he knocks it aside and pulls her into another hug.

“I’ll see you again, Mrs Adler.”

“Another time, Mr Morgan!” She tips her hat as Arthur waves back.

*****

Rufus gallops across the ranch as Arthur rides in trying not to jostle his arm. “Go away, boy,” he hisses. “Where’s Jack? Go play with Jack.” He swears as the dog begins to bark at him. His horse is too used to his grumpy antics to be moved by the aging pup.

He nudges his horse to the barn doors, using the bottom of his bow to prod them open ahead of the mare. Inside, he swings himself down, not caring if there is a steaming pile of manure where he lands. He’s fortunate to land on the concrete with little more than a hiss at the jostle. Moving to the nearest stall to light a lamp, he finds Jack reading besides his favourite calf.

“Hey, Uncle Arthur.”

“What are you doing out here at this hour?” he growls, snatching the book out of his hands and marking the page with his thumb. “Get inside!”

“Y-yes sir.” The boy is clearly taken aback. Arthur rarely exposes his fierce side nowadays - mostly he is calm, quietly cheerful, and appreciative of even the smallest conveniences. He scrambles to his feet, reaching out for the book when his eyes are drawn to the wound with a horrified gasp. “Uncle Arthur!”

He grimaces, still trying to usher him outside. “Shurrup! You want to wake everyone?”

“You’re hurt!” It is more of a question than an exclamation, but his stuttering doesn’t expect an answer. “What happened? Are we in danger? Is it Pinkertons? What do we do?”

“Shit, Jack! Breathe!” He squeezes the boy’s shoulder, staring him in the eye. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. No one’s coming here, no one is coming to hurt us, alrigh’? Take a breath before you pass out or somethin’.”

“Then what happened to your arm?” Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It looks pretty deep. Did a bear get you?”

“Sure,” he lies, ushering him towards the doors.

“Do we need to get the animals in? What if it comes onto the ranch? What were you doing out so late anyway?”

“Boah!” Gritting his teeth, he closes his eyes to help keep his composure. “Get to bed or God help me, I ain’t above knocking you out to get some peace!”

When he opens his eyes he expects the boy to be moving away, but instead he’s leaning in to look at the wound.

“You need me to bring Ma? You look like you need stitches.”

“ _No!_ ” He grips his arm tight enough to make him whimper. “Do not breathe a word of this to your mother. This is between you an’ me, a'right?”

“You need help-”

“I can take care of myself.” He releases him and steps back, beginning to get supplies from his saddle bags. “Don’t you go breathin’ a word about this to anyone, y'hear? Nobody.”

Jack watches tentatively as the man begins to remove his jacket and shirt. Seeing the ripped flesh makes his stomach churn. “What can I do?”

“I told yer-”

“Let me help.” Jack's small soft face is gripped with determination. “What do you need? I- I know where Ma keeps her sewing kit. An’ I’m sure there’ll be some boiled water left over for drinkin’. Will salt help?”

Arthur sighs, his body sagging as he deliberates. He has never been good at accepting help. The only reason he accepted any help in the past was because of Grimshaw’s steadfast stubbornness or being outnumbered. All those years of being strong… standing tall… and now he can’t even scare a boy out of a barn.

“Fine. Bring me a clean union suit too. I think I saw my blue one knocking about somewhere. An’ a pair of pliers - the small ones. Should be under the sink or up in the loft with Uncle.”

The boy runs off leaving Arthur to reflect. For a boy without his father, he was growing up strong. He was lucky to have his mother’s lust for learning, but somehow his father’s gait had survived, especially when he ran. Sometimes Arthur would catch himself watching him and remembering the crap John got into at his age. If John was a coyote, Jack was a fox. He had a good head on his shoulders, and always assessed the risks rather than blundering in blindly like his father did. It was just a shame that the recklessness had been completely swallowed by such delicate hesitation - some things were best learned by jumping in the deep end.

The door creaks as Jack slips back inside breathless, his cheeks rosy from the exertion.

“I was quick as I could. Nobody saw me I don’t think.”

“Good.” Arthur pulls the cork from an open bottle of whiskey with his teeth, spitting it against the wall before chugging its contents. “C’mere. Best we get to by the light if you’re gonna do this.”

Jack gulps as Arthur sits himself on the milking stool, wincing as he inspects the wound. “D’you got the pliers?”

“Right here, sir.”

“OK, now I’m gonna need you to take a look in the wound. I’m sure one of ‘em got me with an arrow before the bastard sliced me.”

“An arrow?” repeats the boy, swallowing his stomach as he eyes the mess of flesh. “You said it was a bear?”

He scoffs. “I’ve said many things in my life, Jack Marston, not all of them honest.”

The boy doesn’t reply. He’s trying to breathe through his mouth but the iron in the air still caresses his tastebuds. “I can’t see anything, Uncle Arthur.”

“Alright. Grab a shirt from Gwyn and bring over the salt water. We gotta get this clean before you sew it up.”

“I ain’t done much sewin’ before.”

Arthur grunts. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

The boy is obedient. He tries to be as careful as possible, but despite his ginger pats, a hiss still seeps out between his teeth. Arthur leans his head back against the barn wall to keep himself steady.

“I saw Sadie Adler when I went out Valentine way. D’you remember her?”

Jack thinks back as he wrings the shirt out. “Maybe?”

“Well, she’s doin’ well. Bounty huntin’. Said it’s good money.” He exhales sharply. “I been doin’ some here and there. Mostly fraudsters or petty thieves. None with any fight or any weapons or shit.”

“Why?”

He tilts his head to review the boy’s reaction. The whiskey and blood loss has loosened his tongue. “I want to help you and your ma buy this place outright. Eight dollars a day is plenty to keep y’all fed and clothed but the bank likes to charge more the longer it takes you to pay it back.”

“Ma will kill you if she finds out.”

“Don’t tell her.” He grips the boy’s wrist with his good arm. “Please? This- this was foolishness. I knew I shouldn’t have taken it.”

“So why did you?”

“I used to be a good shot. A few years back I could have taken ‘em out without any bother, but either I’m gettin’ slow or they’ve got faster.” He glances at his arm and scoffs. “Maybe both,” he grunts as he takes another deep swig of liquor.

“OK, well, it looks clean. Still doesn’t look to be anything much in there.”

“A’right. Bring a needle an’ thread over. Next bit is easy, ok?”

After Jack overcomes his squeamishness, Arthur is sewn up in no time. The boy helps him clean the smaller cuts and injuries, including a bullet in his leg that hadn’t gone too deep. By the time he’s finished, Arthur is dozing, slumped against one of the beams. He wakes him with a gentle shake and heaves him to his feet.

“Hol’ up a minute.” Arthur staggers to the horse and begins to pull at the saddle. Seeing what he’s trying to do with limited mobility, Jack quickly unfastens the clasps and helps set it aside. “Thanks, son.” He ruffles his hair fondly. “Y’know, you look like your father did at your age?”

“Really?” Jack pulls his arm over his shoulder, leading him in the direction of the house. Colour is beginning to light the sky. It must be near three in the morning.

“Yeah. I didn’t care much for him then.” He snorts laughing. “Your Uncle Hosea wasn’t best pleased with me.”

****

Arthur grunts as a hammering brings him back to consciousness. His body is stiff, his mouth dry, his head thumping without the noise. Squinting in the morning light, Jack is sticking his head through the door.

“Uncle Arthur? Are you ok?”

“Never better,” he growls sarcastically. “What’s up?”

“Mrs Adler - the lady you spoke about last night? She’s outside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware now that most of the women weren't actually prostitutes. I knew Molly came from a very wealthy family, Tilly ran with a gang, and Mary Beth was a pickpocket but details, details.... Yeah this was probably going to be a "Guess Who I Found", but I haven't actually written it because I wasn't sure if he would go or not being a believer of "revenge is a fools game". Sadie would probably have contacted Charles and it would have been a whole thing - maybe I'll write it one day if you want it. I'm willing to accept requests within this project to help build up the world if people want since, like i've said before, there isn't a lot of Arthur/Abigail/Jack content (boo)


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